


Lie On the Floor Without Holding On

by FestiveFerret



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, But probably with more hope in it than I intended, Drunk Tony, Ferret tries to do pure angst, Longing, M/M, Sad Ending, Secret Admirer, Secrets, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 07:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15480765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret/pseuds/FestiveFerret
Summary: Tony flails against the shifting of gravity, trying to figure out why "up" suddenly isn't where it's supposed to be anymore.





	Lie On the Floor Without Holding On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enkiduu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkiduu/gifts).



> enki.... this is for you. I didn't have a sprinkle beta so there's probably wayyyy too much hope in this, but.... well. I tried. It's like taking a donut and then dressing it up in black clothes and heavy eyeliner. It's all I have to offer, though. :plate: <3

Tony flails against the shifting of gravity, trying to figure out why "up" suddenly isn't where it's supposed to be anymore. Large, strong hands dig in under his armpits, and the world finishes spinning, but his stomach doesn't. He heaves, and the hands bring him back to his knees, one hand landing on the back of his head to push him down towards the floor. He wretches, and burning, alcoholic bile surges up his throat. He spits. There's nothing else to come up - his diet has been purely liquid for at least two days.

When he doesn't heave again, the hands lift him once more, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he's jostled and manhandled.

His back finally hits steady ground - soft enough to suck him in and surge up around him. It's like quicksand, being released from a firm hold into this much gentler give, and he flails around, trying to say something, trying to ask who's here and why they're trying to drown him in pillows. But his hand only smacks against the back of the couch painfully, and the hands disappear.

Tony wants to sit up, wants to find out who was here and where he is and why he's so drunk that he's not entirely sure all the fingers on the hand he's dropped to his face actually belong to him, but instead, he falls asleep.

**

He wakes up on the workshop couch, alone, in the dark, still in his clothes from last night. There's a bucket from the workshop cleaning cupboard pressed up close to the couch near his face, and  _ fuck  _ does he ever need it, because the slight movement of opening his eyes is enough to flip his stomach right over.  
  


* * *

  
"Oh, come on, Brucie, don't be an  _ idiot,"  _ Tony calls from behind the bar and he sees Bruce roll his eyes. Tony knows he's being too loud and too rude, stomping over other people when they try to talk, but he can't bring himself to care. It's  _ funny,  _ tonight. Everything's funny. He tops up his drink again and makes his way back to the table, bouncing off a stool by the kitchen counter.

"I was just positing an imaginary scenario, Tony. I know it's not plausible." Bruce's jaw is tight so Tony gives him an affectionate pat on the head. 

"Sorry, bud. I know you wouldn't do idiot science."

Tony has lost count, but the warmth of his however-many scotches is solid and unwavering now, and anytime the conversation gets too boring, he sinks down into the sensation of floating in a hot, steamy bath. The ache in his muscles from last night's mission is gone - sure to be back double tomorrow, but gone for now. He can't remember how many unread emails he has in his inbox. He doesn't care.

The chatter of his friends around him is soothing and steady, and he catches Steve shooting him uncomfortable glances when he laughs too hard at something Clint says, but who cares? Steve can do his silent, sober judging. Tony's having a good time tonight. 

**

Tony wakes up confused, until he rummages around and figures out that the painful corner digging into his neck is the TV remote and he's on the living room couch. He doesn't remember falling asleep here, and it's a bit odd because he'd usually stagger either upstairs or down to the workshop before passing out. There's a blanket tucked tightly around him though, keeping his surprisingly bare feet snuggled up and warm. 

Tony takes a sip from a water glass someone left on the coffee table last night then picks up his phone and starts to tackle his overflowing inbox.   
  


* * *

  
Tony reaches for his glass on the coffee table, but the movement shifts his balance, and he keeps tipping and tipping…

He stops tipping when his cheek lands against a warm, firm shoulder. "Tony?"

Tony blinks up towards the noise, but everything is soft and hazy now, and the effort of lifting his chin enough to find the source is more than he can manage. He hums in an affirmative sort of way - because, yes, he's pretty sure he's Tony - but the person sighs, sounding exasperated.

"Good party," Tony slurs, reaching for his glass again - or at least vaguely towards where he'd seen it last. 

"It's over," the person replies, a little sharply. 

"I'still early, though." Tony tries to look up again to see if it is over, but it's true that he hasn't heard much in the way of party noises for a while now.

"It's three in the morning." The person sighs again, and then a firm arm wraps around Tony's waist and lifts.

Tony uses the momentum to let his head fall back so he can see his helper. But somewhere around the bottom of a bottle of scotch, he'd lost one of his contacts, and that combined with the rhythmic lagging of his drunken wooze means all he catches is strong arms and a splash of blond hair. "Thor

Thor sighs again, not sounding like himself at all, and tugs Tony closer as they slip inside the elevator. "I think you drank too much, Tony."

Tony tries to shrug, then panics briefly when his shoulders seem entirely out of his control. The person in the elevator keeps talking, saying something else, but Tony's entire attention is locked on his shoulders, trying to get them back where they should be.

"Tony?"

"Huh?" Tony spins towards the noise and falls against a firm chest. "Thor?"

"Bedtime." The firm chest drags him out of the elevator and deposits him in his bedroom.

Tony cocks a hip and licks his lips purely on instinct. "Wanna stay with me, hot stuff?" He's pretty sure it isn't Thor, but he doesn't really give a shit. Having all that warm chest tucked up in bed with him sounds appealing no matter who it belongs to. Worrying about whose brother or personal assistant he's fucked is tomorrow-Tony's problem.

"No." The door slams shut, and Tony shrugs, losing track of his shoulders again until he tips to the side and falls sprawled on the bed.

"Your loss," he mutters into the pillow.

**

Tony wakes up the next morning, head pounding and mouth full of cotton. "What's on the docket today, J?" he asks the ceiling.

"You have two meetings with department heads, a product pitch seminar, and Pepper has asked for two hours after lunch."

"Yippee." Tony rolls out of bed, ignoring the pounding in his head. The Advil is in the bathroom, but the hair of the dog is only a few feet away, and Tony takes a swig from the nearest bottle, bringing it with him to spice up his morning coffee. "Oh, hey, JARVIS? Didn't we have a party last night? How'd it go?"

"Your guests appeared to enjoy themselves, as much as I'm capable of judging that."

"Awesome." Tony has a brief flash of memory at someone being up here in his room last night. He turns to eye the bed suspiciously, but no hair - blond hair? - peeks out of the mess of covers. Huh. He must have struck out. He takes another hit from the bottle and grimaces at the burn over an already sore throat. "Alright, J. Let's get this day on the road."  
  


* * *

  
So far no one has recognized him, and that's a blessing and a curse, because it's usually someone calling his name and getting out a phone camera that makes Tony get up and leave the bar. He's been here a long time, and he's good enough at faking sober that the bartender shift change means he's nowhere near getting cut off.

The room is wobbling a little, and Tony's hand shakes if he tries to hold his phone, so he keeps one around his glass and the other flat on the bartop where he can keep an eye on it.

"Hey there."

Tony looks up and a skinny dude with more hair gel than sense is smirking at him in a way that he probably thinks is alluring but actually comes across like he's waiting for an opportunity to try to explain something to Tony that he already has a PhD in. "What?"

This seems to throw the guy a bit, but not enough because he settles on the bar stool next to Tony, hooking his elbows behind him over the bartop. He nods towards Tony's glass. "Can I get you another one?"

"I make more money taking a piss than you will in your entire life. I can buy my own drinks. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I'm old enough to be your hot-yet-eccentric uncle. Go try and land a fish your own size, kid."

The kid won't give up, but Tony ignores him, and eventually he wanders off with a pout. It isn't much later that a group of the younger SHIELD agents who've come here for happy hour catch sight of Tony, and, squealing, manage to convince him to join them on the dancefloor.

Hair Gel notices too, though, and he tries to take the opportunity to flash his incredibly unimpressive tail feathers. Tony's rolling his eyes and about two choruses of heavily drum-machined Taylor Swift short of decking the guy when a tall, sturdy shield shoves himself between Tony and the overeager chihuahua humping his leg. 

"He said  _ back off," _ the attractive wall growls, and Tony realizes it's  _ Steve  _ of all people. In his trashy bar. On the dancefloor, no less.

The kid skitters off with his tail between his legs, because Steve can do that thing with his eyebrows where he's really disappointed in you, and it works on literally everyone because he's Captain America. Steve turns to face Tony, and Tony laughs and pokes him in the chest. What the fuck is he doing here? "My knight in shining patriotism."

Steve almost smiles, but it twists sad before it reaches the edges of his lips. "Come on, Tony. Time to go home."

Tony is startled to find himself letting Steve lead him out of the bar. "Didn't peg you for someone who frequents a place like this, Cap."

Steve flags a cab and eases Tony in then follows after. "I don't."

Tony blinks at him, trying to figure out why that's significant, but the cool night air and the lack of heavy bass to keep his heart beating makes Tony realize how incredibly drunk he is, and he has to brace himself against a wave of nausea at the sudden rush. The cab takes off, rocking back and forth, and Tony passes out to the flashing of neon lights catching on the white puffs of snow drifting to the ground outside the window, a warm hand on the back of his neck.

**

The next morning is an early one, and Tony drags himself off the bed he woke up tucked into and stares down at himself while JARVIS drones on with the morning news. He's half in a suit, but with no shoes which means he went to the bar last night after work, but he has no recollection of going to bed. 

He vaguely remembers a pushy dick with a stupid haircut, but no one's in the penthouse with him, and he's honestly not sure if he got lucky last night or not. He's pretty sure that at the very least, he shared a cab with someone.  
  


* * *

 

  
"Run it again, J," Tony says through gritted teeth. He turns back to the phone. "No, Pep, I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it. Me being Iron Man is not a cat I can put back in the bag. And I can't be calculating the effect on SI stocks every time I decide how I'm going to try to save my friends."

Pepper sighs. "Of course, I know that Tony. I'd never ask you to… I'm just letting you know. Today was a hit. And it's going to be a while to recover from it, that's all. As CEO, it's my duty -"

"I know, I know. Look, I have some Avengers stuff I have to do. Can we do the punishment play tomorrow? I'm a little wiped out for this kinky shit right now."

"Tony." He can hear her pursing her lips.

"Pep."

"You're okay, right? I mean, JARVIS said you weren't injured, but -"

"I'm fine. Stop worrying about me, Potts. I'll start to think you like me or something."

She laughs lightly, and Tony cracks his first smile of the night. "I love you, Tony. Take care of yourself."

"Don't need to, that's why I have you. Night, Pep."

"Goodnight, Tony."

Tony flicks off the phone and turns back to the simulation. He watches the tiny dots move on the screen and frowns. The dot labelled "Hawkeye" takes a hit and goes down. "Nope. Run it again, J." There has to be a way. The dots reorganize and start to move again.

Tony watches them for a long time, the projected SI stock price ticking down on the other screen. Finally, the sim finds a maneuver that gets everyone out without injury, right when JARVIS clicks on the speakers to say, "Agent Romanoff is out of surgery. They were able to repair the break, and the osteopath says it'll be six to eight weeks of recovery."

And that's good news, but combined with the successful sim blinking on his screen - the choice that would have ended with everyone home in the tower tonight - and the tanking stock price - blowing up half a partially-constructed school to fail to save his teammate from injury has that effect - pushes him over the edge.

Tony shoves his chair back and stumbles across the room to the cupboard above the sink. He grabs two bottles at random and takes a swig from one before carrying both back to the couch. He makes JARVIS run every single simulation while he watches, working his way steadily first through one bottle and then half of the other. It takes a while, but eventually he has a nice buzz going. It's not drowning out the fire in his gut though or the voice - too much like his father's - in his head that tells him he fucked u

There's a knock on the door, and Tony waves his arm imperiously towards it. "Fuck off," he slurs at no one. But the door slides open. "Fuck you, JARVIS. I said no one."

"I'm sorry, Sir, that order must have only been in your head."

"Fuck you," Tony repeats, the fire roaring up and licking at the back of his throat, the back of his eyes. "Fuck you."

A hand lands on his shoulder, and Tony startles around. It's Steve.

"God, Cap, can't you save the telling off for training tomorrow? Then you can just line everyone up and they can have a go at me one at a time."

Steve frowns at him. "That's not why I'm here, Tony."

"Wanna drink then?" Tony waves the bottle in his direction.

"No."

"Whatever." Tony slumps back down on the couch and brings the mouth of the bottle to his lips again, skating his tongue around the thick, ridged glass. Steve can do whatever the fuck he wants.

Tony loses track of time after that, but at some point someone tries to take the bottle from his hand and the embers burst into wildfire. He rips the hand off his wrist and chucks the bottle across the room, hearing it crash satisfyingly into something undoubtedly expensive. He shoves at whoever is there with him, screaming something - he doesn't know what, but the words take the worst of the flames with them and keep his throat from scalding.

He fights, but it's not enough. Steve - is it Steve? Didn't he leave? - wrestles Tony out of the room and into the elevator. He's pretty sure he's swearing now, spilling poison and vitriol out of his chest before it can replace his blood, his breath.

He doesn't remember anything else.

**

Tony wakes up tucked into bed with his shirt and shoes off and the blankets tucked up around his shoulders. On the bedside table is a bottle of Advil and a huge glass of water. Tony slowly eases himself up onto one elbow and looks across the room to the bar. This time the Advil is closer. He knocks back two with half the bottle of water then rolls over and goes back to sleep. Today is going to suck - there's so much to put back together - but it can suck later.  
  


* * *

  
Steve hovers in the doorway out to the balcony, wrestling with something hot and painful that struggles to crawl up his throat. He swallows it down for the hundredth time and steps forward to drop a hand to Tony's ankle.

Tony moans, and shifts on the chaise he's sprawled himself over, despite the thirty-degree weather. There's a small mountain of empty bottles next to him, but Steve ignores them. He doesn't want to count, doesn't want to know.

Tony had clearly brought a blanket out with him when he - for whatever  _ fucking  _ reason - decided to get drunk outside, but it had slipped off his shoulders at some point, and his skin is pale, blue under his fingernails. 

Steve runs his fingers through Tony's hair then grabs the blanket and wraps it around him, crouching down next to him to ease him into a sitting position. 

"Hey, Rhodey," Tony says thickly. "You owe me ten bucks."

"Why's that?" Steve asks, keeping his voice carefully level. He tugs Tony up towards him and slowly runs his hands up and down his chilled arms, tucking the blanket tightly around him when he's sure Tony's not going to start flailing. 

"Cause - um." Tony's eyes manage to focus on Steve's face. "Hey, Rhodey," he repeats.

"Hey, Tony. Bedtime, okay?"

"'Mmm." 

Steve hooks an arm under the bend of Tony's knees and the other around his back and lifts. There's a crash of broken glass as something falls to the ground, but Steve ignores it; he can clean it up later. 

He holds Tony tightly against his chest, his whole body aching painfully when Tony nuzzles his face into him with a happy sigh. Steve squeezes his eyes closed as the elevator rockets up to the penthouse, breathing in sharply through his nose. Tony smells bitter and acidic, but under that he smells like Tony, and Steve wonders if his clothes are going to smell like him all night. They usually do.

The door to Tony's apartment opens automatically, and Steve carries Tony all the way to the master bedroom. He settles Tony on the bed.

"Stee-?" Tony asks.

"Yes?" Steve bends over him. 

"Yeah," Tony breathes, curling over on his side. 

Steve can't begin to imagine how much booze it took to get Tony to this stage. He gets drunk enough to forget fairly often, but Steve has only seen him this out of it a few times. "JARVIS, he's okay right? Just the usual."

If computers can sigh, that's what JARVIS does. "I'm afraid it's just the 'usual,' Captain."

"Right." Steve stands by the bed for a long time, trying to make himself move. It isn't until Tony shifts in his sleep that Steve's startled into action. He unties Tony's shoes and tugs them off then works Tony out of his shirt and pants with military efficiency. Tony's skin is still chilled, so Steve grabs a pair of sweatpants and fresh shirt from Tony's closet and makes him sit up and pull them on. Tony babbles about his work when Steve wakes him, then quiets again as Steve settles him back on the bed and draws the covers up over him. 

There's a huge bottle of Advil in the bathroom, and Steve shakes out two, fills a glass with cool water, then brings it all back to Tony's bedside table. He sets it up so Tony will see it when he wakes.

Tony's still cold, so Steve perches on the edge of the bed and rubs his hand over his side. Tony's eyes flicker open, and he looks at Steve curiously. "Steve?"

"Hey, Tony," Steve says softly. He leans forward a little and can't resist brushing Tony's hair out of his eyes. "You okay?"

Tony groans softly. "I think I drank too much."

"I agree." Steve shoots him a look, and Tony snorts with amusement.

"Cold…" he murmurs, then his eyes flutter shut, and this time he's really asleep.

Steve stays until Tony's cheeks are flushed with warmth again and he's stopped shivering. Then he stands and tries to leave the room.

Tony's eyes are softly closed, and his chest rises and falls slowly. He looks at peace, and Steve hopes he's dreaming about something nice; he deserves that. Steve is long past the excuse of making sure Tony's okay, but he can't bring himself to leave. It's okay, though, he knows JARVIS won't rat him out.

Besides, a part of him wants to overstay his welcome. A part of him wants to keep his feet rooted here on the carpet until Tony wakes up, until he's lucid. A part of him wants to crawl in bed beside him and draw Tony into his arms and hold him until he chases away the demons that crawl along, nipping at Tony's ankles like shadows that only come out in the dark. 

Instead, Steve bends down over Tony's soft, sleeping form and presses a kiss to his forehead, breathing in one last lungful of his scent. Maybe someday. Maybe someday he'll be here in the penthouse because he was invited. He walks into the elevator, turning his back on Tony. 

Maybe tomorrow.

**

Steve wakes alone on the couch of the common room, startling up when Tony walks into the room. He knows he should have gone to his own room last night, but then he'd miss Tony getting up in the morning, and this time he can't bear to drop even the tiniest scrap he can scrounge up. 

Tony has the dark lines under his eyes and the pinch at the corner of his mouth that say he's hungover. He barely spares Steve a glance while he pours coffee that JARVIS must have started automatically. "Mornin' Cap." He yawns.

"Morning, Tony. Sleep alright?"

Tony shrugs, stirring in milk. "Guess so. I don't really remember. See you at training later."

Tony walks out, and Steve watches him go. 

He can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> For my "secret admirer" square in cap-im bingo. You can follow me on tumblr at festiveferret.tumblr.com! <3


End file.
